


stay gold

by dimplesum



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Inspired by Studio Ghibli, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Sakusa Kiyoomi is Bad at Feelings, Temporary Amnesia, Witch! Reader - Freeform, idk what's fusion but this is very loosely based on howl's moving castle, man he really is LOL, war-typical violence but also it's pretty brief if anything, witches and wizards are all gender-neutral here for terms, wizard! sakusa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28622160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimplesum/pseuds/dimplesum
Summary: You're an ordinary witch, trying to fit in with the rest of the town when Sakusa Kiyoomi, a loyal soldier to the war cause, crash-lands in your yard. suddenly, he has forgotten all about the war, and you realize it's your chance to change his views on the war.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader, Yachi Hitoka & Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	stay gold

Necromancy is not your forte. In fact, you’re pretty sure that most witches don’t even bother with necromancy with the backlash it contains. There’s a lot of risk with the practice (like most things), and no one wants to risk having their soul stuck in  _ limbo _ by accident _. _ With this very scene illustrated at your front yard, you look like you’re about to commit the crime of necromancy, the very last thing you want the townspeople to think of you, especially when you  _ just _ gained their trust.

You glance down at the nearly-dead body in your hands, wondering if you look like you’re trying to bury a body and cover up the crime scene. His face is far too sickly — a horrible shade of gray, maroon rivulets of dried blood spilling down his hairline, and you don’t want to look any further because for all you know, his head is also split open  _ (fuck all these mental images). _ Swallowing deeply, you ignore your nausea toward the visually gruesome situation because there’s an actual life resting in your hands. It’s a matter of life or death, and you could either help him live or watch him simply wither away before your eyes. Your fingers curl into the thick fabric of his navy uniform, edged with gold material and elaborate embroidery as you attempt to drag him up the hill, your feet slowly sliding down with every step from the steepness. Everything about him screams that he’s a  _ wizard, _ and you have half the mind to dig a hole into the ground for him, but at the same time, as you gaze down at his blood-stained face, you know that it’s your duty to help him live, even if he’s from the  _ other _ side.

Behind you, the shattered remnants of an unidentified aircraft clutter the grassy slopes lining your cottage. Smoke rises from the plane, and tilting your head up to the sky, you’re grateful that the sky has been shrouded with clouds, the gentle, gray outline of evaporated water filtering out the sunlight. The royal emblem on the enemy plane is the same exact navy blue as the man’s uniform, lined with a golden color meant to catch one’s eye. It glitters underneath the sunlight, dazzling your eyes and taking your breath away — for all the wrong reasons. In a way, the plane resembles one of those many toys that the village toymaker crafts — beautiful when in flight; terrible when in war; and useless when damaged.

Ever since a child, you’ve been trained to run away at the sight of that royal emblem, to call for help before your town burns down because of the enemy. It’s quite tragic that you can’t remember a time  _ without war.  _ Your current actions are quite stupid, you realize as you pull the soldier through the grass, his boots digging trails into the ground. You’re not sure if you should even be doing this, helping the enemy. Dragging this soldier up the hill already means that you’re willing to break the town law  _ just _ for a stranger, and you have no clue if that’s good or bad. And yet, you know that your duty as a witch is to help others with the power bestowed to you by the higher powers above. 

To betray your origins or to disobey is the law is the conflict you face.

“Hey,” the man groans incomprehensibly. You look down at him, studying his pale face in the midst of this cloudy weather, faint rays of sunlight falling upon his skin. “Where are you taking me? Stop what you’re doing.”

His hands slap your arms weakly, beating at you in hopes that you will, in fact, stop because of his pleas. With every slap against your skin, you can feel how he weakens every passing second, his resolve fading. You blink a couple of times, gazing down at him incredulously. Perhaps it was naïve of you to think that you could help the enemy out. You don’t blame him for not wanting to be in this position because torture is one of the worst ways to die, but at the same time, you think that he really must be obtuse for a wizard if he can’t even sense how one of your hands is pressed against the side of his neck to check his pulse.

“Excuse me?” you ask, the words falling from your lips quite dumbly. You’re trying not to overreact as your fingers curl into the dusty navy blue of his uniform’s sleeve, inching to burn his uniform and let it erupt into ashes. It would be far easier to do so, rather than going through all this trouble to let him  _ live. _ “Are you seriously trying to argue with me on your deathbed?”

“I’d rather die than let a  _ witch _ help me,” he retches, trying to contain the crimson liquid swimming in his mouth. 

You’re all too familiar with the reputation of being a  _ witch, _ knowing what stories they tell on the other side of the continent. There are still ordinary humans in your kingdom who find your kind dangerous, the fear of the unknown rendering them frightened. Once in a while, you hear about the burnings of witches at  _ stake, _ and the thought of  _ that _ sends bile burning your throat. It’s horrifying — what people will do when they don’t understand something.

You’re all too familiar with all the stories that they tell of wizards, too. They are the chess pieces that militaries employ in war, trained from childhood to become  _ monsters, _ shadows of what they once were. Once a wizard has outlived their use, they’re disposed of, and another wizard replaces them for the sake of maintaining manpower. You hate the fact that  _ both _ sides of the war are ever so willing to use wizards for the sake of their own gains. In a way, wizards are just victims of the selfishness that royalty possesses. 

“You’re a  _ wizard,” _ you huff out indignantly, trying to not let your little dialogue waste any time. To wizards, they view witches as weak for not choosing to seek any higher powers. “If anything, I shouldn’t be helping you.”

“So why are you helping me?” he demands.

The brim of your midnight black sun hat dips into your vision, and you’re forced to throw your head back slightly to keep your eyesight clear. His eyes are trained upon you, analyzing your every move out of wariness. Even on his deathbed, he’s still so hesitant to trust you, and it’s honestly grating at you. You want to shake him by the shoulders to get some common sense in him. 

Instead of letting your irritation out on him, you let a smile pull the ends of your lips up briefly, savoring the bitter taste of your words, saturated with your conviction. “Because that’s what my kind does. We heal and grow, not destroy.”

Before he can let out a retort filled with snark, his eyes suddenly roll back into the back of his head, and all you can see is the whites of his eyes. Panic floods your system as soon as you realize that you’ve spent far too much time talking to him. Time slips from you, every second wasted from talking to him. Cursing yourself internally, you slam the door to your cottage open, feeling the intensity of the situation too colorfully.

The strangest thing about mankind is the fact that they  _ fear _ what they do not know. To some degree, they’re right to fear, to distance themselves because of the lack of knowledge they possess, and yet, you hate it. You’ve grown up with ordinary humans staring at you, wondering why they are forced to tolerate mages with all the stories surrounding them. Wizards are ruthless murderers. Witches are child-eaters. These tasteless stories are what make you resent the fact that you need to prove yourself to others for being different — that your kind is harmless. You muse to yourself as you start preparing medicine for him, wondering if it’s okay for you to save him — just because of your morals, rather than listening to the town doctrine.

You’ve laid the soldier on a spare bed, letting his pained breathing ring through the air. You know that his dying breath is very, very near, which is why you’re trying to work quickly, tearing through your dog-eared spell books to find the answer. Your fingers nimbly flip through the book, feeling the velvety touch of the weathered pages as you glance at him, wishing that time would slow down for you.

It seems like hours in the amount of time that you spend on making a restorative potion just for him. You’ve probably put him in the wrong place, especially since you’re in the apothecary where any customer can just walk in on you. All your ingredients are stored in wooden shelves above you, hanging from the ceiling with great vines weaving through the cracks of the wood. The rhythm of your movements hasn’t slowed down at all as you try to pace yourself, muttering the steps of the concoction you’re making under your breath rapidly. You have no room for error, and you know that you have one and only one chance to make this right. Puffing out your cheeks slightly once you finish brewing, you watch the silvery liquid slide down a vial, pooling gently at the bottom with an eerie glow.

Tipping it between the soldier’s small lips — shaped like a budding tulip, you can’t help but feel anxious. After all, you’ve taken up the responsibility of taking care of this young man, and you’ll be damned if he dies on your watch. A few moments later, smoke rises from his mouth, just like what the potions book told you. You take a few steps back as a precaution, letting your hand curl around your broomstick, ready to whack him. A guttural groan rumbles from his chest, and you’re surprised by how your chest burns with a strange emotion as you watch how his muscles unknot as his arms stretch out to release tension from his shoulders. 

_ He’s strangely handsome, _ you’ll admit that. The soldier carries an otherworldly aura to him, and your throat closes up as you realize how your thoughts have strayed from the fact that he’s the  _ enemy. _

There’s a steely look of resoluteness on his face, curly strands falling into his eyes as he lifts himself up from the bed. His face is caked with dirt, a sheen of sweat shining slick across his forehead. You watch him warily, your fingers grasping the handle of your broomstick tightly until blood is nearly drained from your death-like grip. In this town filled with ordinary humans, you know that you should bring him to the knights and let him disappear from your sight because the enemy should not be here.

Before you can open your mouth to speak to the wizard, he goes first, the space between his eyebrows scrunched up. “Where am I?”

And at that moment, you realize that though he may be a wizard, he isn’t one right now. 

He’s just as human as you.

From what your spell books tell you, it’s an odd case of amnesia; he has been cursed. It could have happened anywhere, but it’s probably why his plane shot into your front yard like that — from the loss of control he had from experiencing the beginning of the curse. You’ve heard of things such as forgetfulness and dizzy spells, but never have you actually witnessed this kind of thing before in your life. After all, you’re just a new witch, trying to get a feel for things. Most witches gain their powers fully by sixteen, and they spend two years just to tame the raw, unharnessed power in their veins. 

The thing is,  _ where do his memories exactly stop? _

The stranger in your home isn’t necessarily rude or polite. He knows his manners, tying his napkin around his neck and pulling a perfect knot with its ends without looking behind himself. After his shower, there’s a light mint aroma, almost reminding you of an herbal garden. He has grabbed some of your lighter clothes, wearing a white dress shirt made of silk and pants that hang just above his ankles. There’s a slight grimace on his lips from being barefoot, but this is all you have for him that  _ fits. _ After all, you never expected an uninvited guest to come into your home like this, much less someone from the other side.

Your front yard is cleared of his plane, you choosing to turn it into shrubbery. Of course, your neighbors have questioned your choice of having odd-shaped greenery in your yard, but come again, they have always regarded you as some kind of alien in their town, especially since you don’t come from here and the fact that you’re a  _ witch. _ You clear your thoughts, letting your metal chopsticks clap together to eat rice.

“Did anyone tell you that it’s rude to stare at people while they eat?” he asks shortly, his voice curt like a sword’s blade. He balances a pair of chopsticks between his right hand’s fingers perfectly. “You still haven’t answered my question. Where am I? Who are you? What did you do to me?”

“And you haven’t answered my question either,” you counter. “Who are you, stranger? And I? I am the one who  _ saved _ you from death.”

“I’m Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he answers easily.

You didn’t expect that he would give up his name so easily. After all, names hold so much power in this world, and the weight of just the sound of his name  _ radiates _ an unknown power that you yourself cannot understand. Swallowing deeply, you wonder to yourself just what kind of wizard have you brought to the safety of your cottage.

“Omi-san, then,” you decide, letting your voice dip slightly from the last syllable in his name. You can see how taken aback he is from your informality, his eyes widening at how easily you call him by the name. Of course, it’s not  _ that _ informal, and you know your boundaries. “It’s a cute name, you know. Do you mind if I call you that?”

_ Kiyoomi, _ you repeat to yourself, his full name tasting of warmth. It means to stand out, and ironically, he does stand out in your vision against this rural landscape of ordinary people. You’re the only two people who can wield magic in this area. Strangely, you feel at ease at knowing there’s another mage beside you. He might be a wizard, and you two might share differences, but it makes all the difference to you to know that you’re not alone.

His Adam’s apple bobs against his throat, and just for a second, you think that he’s going to reject you, that he’s going to say  _ no, _ and that he has recovered all his memories. You remind yourself  _ once again  _ that this is stupid, that you’ve saved the enemy, giving him the opportunity to ruin people’s lives.  _ You’re an idiot for letting him into a place of so many vulnerable people. _

“Okay,” he says quietly, the words rumbling from his chest as his aggressive air recedes.

The smile on your lips is completely genuine, relieved by his agreement. 

“What’s your name?” he asks after you two fall into a short silence. “After all, you’re the one who saved me, and I need to thank you for that.”

When you tell him your name, it tastes sweet coming from his lips, and suddenly, you find your face feeling very hot — incredibly hot, if not burning. The way he’s regarding you — as not an enemy — is a telltale sign that he doesn’t remember at least being a part of the war.

“What do you last remember?” you question. “You’re having a little bit of an amnesiac spell, so forgive me for being so inquisitive.”

“I was going to the post office to mail off my application form for the military, but the enemy came in and started bombing my city,” he says, his tone mellow.

You can feel the ache and confusion in his voice from the change in scenes. His experiences echo yours ever so closely. At this very moment, you aren’t enemies at all. You are both victims of a never-ending war that spares  _ no one, _ and the pain, confusion, and conflict from all of this will never go away. 

“I’m glad that I could save you at the very least,” you say, interrupting the somber atmosphere. “You’re still healing from the accident, so it’ll do you good to stay here to rest while you’re at it.”

It’s a poor cover-up to try to stop him from going back to his homeland because you’re very sure that once he gets back, someone will be able to recover his memories for him, and nothing’s going to stop him from declaring a capture of your town.

He looks at you from underneath his eyelashes, their dark color turning almost silvery under the sunlight, and there’s a crooked smile shaping his lips as he tells you, “Thank you for saving me.”

You discover that there’s a certain rhythm to Sakusa Kiyoomi. He does things very systematically, evaluating each situation so carefully to the point where you’re very sure that you can hear the gears in his mind grinding against one another. There’s an unearthly fear that you carry in your lungs.  _ What if he recovers his memories? _ The very last thing you want to happen is for him to suddenly wear that soldier persona upon his face, ready to wipe this village off the face of Earth. His chilly demeanor before you healed him was absolutely horrifying, and your conviction to not let him remember the past shines brightly in your mind.

“You really don’t have to clean up, you know?” you tell him, the ends of your lips pulling up slightly in amusement as he sweeps through the shop with a mundane broomstick. Your apothecary is connected to your home, made of great glass panes that are framed by winding vines that glow in the sunlight. “The apothecary hasn’t even had visitors yet.”

“But I want to,” he answers stubbornly, the little space between his eyebrows folding back into an accordion again. “I feel weird not doing anything, and I’d rather pay you back for saving me. It’s the least I can do.”

It’s that itch that comes from war, the need to do what the commander says, but it’s apparent that he doesn’t have any memories of the war or at least from being a part of the war. You glance at him, watching agitation stretch across his face and tug down at his lips. His eyes are noticeably honing on all the details of the apothecary, going to every crack and corner to dust off any dirt.

Inhaling shortly, you find yourself starting to brew a potion, feeling your emotions spike up. It’s weird to have someone in your own personal space, a space that’s normally occupied by silence. Instead, there’s the sound of the broomstick brushing into the wooden floor coupled with a stranger’s breathing. It’s so, so  _ different _ from what you’re used to. Your fingers are oddly clammy, slick with a light layer of sweat. Suddenly, your grip becomes slack against everything, and you can feel the measuring cup warm against your hand, a certain wetness causing it to slip from your fingers.

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck, _ is all you can think to yourself, cursing yourself for being so clumsy. You’re bracing yourself to hear the glass shatter until a dark figure appears in front of you ever so quickly in a blur. His speed is almost  _ inhumane, _ nearly taking your breath away and making your heart race. 

_ So this is the real power of a soldier, _ you think to yourself in quiet awe. Sakusa glances up at you, raising his eyebrows.

“Didn’t your masters teach you proper technique?” he asks bluntly. “You’re not supposed to hold the measuring cup by the rim like that.”

“You’re a witch?” you sputter out, ignoring his little correction.

“Fundamentally, all wizards are witches. After all, wizards only use instruments to wield magic, and witches don’t use instruments to use magic. Wizards do need to understand the basic principles of magic, which originate from witches,” he says off-handedly, educating you with some kind of a lecture that reminds you of grade school. Sakusa’s reminiscent of your old masters, the way he peers down at you and the way information falls from his lips in an impassioned manner. “It looks like you haven’t been taught the techniques of potion-making properly, though.”

If you were less distracted, you would have berated him for being so rude to you.

It becomes more clear to you now that he hasn’t necessarily lost all his memories. You’re curious where exactly his memories stop at, but for him to adjust so easily to here is very mysterious, but you’re not going to try to trigger his past at all. The unspoken part of his words is that wizards are always a part of the military. On both sides of the war, they use wizards to fight against one another.

When he comes behind you, his frame closing in on yours, your thoughts disappear in an instant, more concerned by his warmth. It’s strange how your bodies are able to fit together so easily, and you swallow your feelings as they boil rapidly from his close proximity. His eyes flick to the side to read over your spell book briefly, and masterfully, he finishes up the potion for you, much quicker than you would have ever done. You put in the back room to let it rest for a bit, waiting for its designated customer to pick it up.

“I’ll teach you the art of witchcraft,” he decides, “as payment for saving my life.”

“You really don’t have to,” you start, only for him to continue.

“After all, it would be a shame for the town pharmacist to accidentally poison their customers, don’t you think?” Sakusa points out, humor lacing his words.

It seems that he does have some kind of sense of humor, although it’s hard to say that you enjoy it or not, especially when it’s at the expense of commenting on your magic. His eyes are creased with light happiness, and you’re quite sure that you can hear your heart dully thumping in the background because there’s something really about him that makes you attracted to him ever so strangely, and you need it to  _ stop _ this instant. 

You let a pout frame your lips, turning backward to flick his forehead with a frown. “Shut up, I’m the one who saved your life.”

“I’m also the one teaching you,” Sakusa counters, catching your wrist with one hand and flicking your forehead back with the other hand. 

The door opens to one of your frequent customers, Yachi Hitoka. She’s wearing a straw sun hat that hides her from the piercing heat of the summer, and she inclines her head slightly at the sight of you, only to freeze when she sees the compromising position you’re in. From an outsider’s viewpoint, you look like you’re being embraced by Sakusa, which is  _ not _ what’s happening.

“Did I come at a bad time?” Yachi asks, her eyes slightly widened. She’s one of the few people whose company you enjoy, and she’s the town tailor. “I can always leave if you want —”

“There’s no need,” you interrupt brusquely, shooting her a grin that seems a bit too forcibly placed on your face and shying away from Sakusa’s presence. “Sakusa, can you get the tonic I was working on? I wrapped it up in a paper bag, so it’ll be easy to find.”

It’s the potion that you were working on earlier, completed by Sakusa, and watching him nod and retreat into the back room gives you momentary relief from the moment you were just in. Yachi places her forearms on the counter, raising her eyebrows with curiosity.

“When did  _ he _ get in town?” she asks in a hushed whisper. “I didn’t know that  _ you’re  _ dating someone!”

You know it’s the time of the year where lovebirds get together and whatnot, and you’re frankly not interested in dating people, especially when you know that most label you as a witch and would rather not get involved with you as a whole.

“I’m not dating anyone,” you correct her, knowing how interested she is in others’ love lives. It’s part of being one of the town favorites, knowing all the gossip. You’re lucky to have befriended Yachi, an angel and the epitome of happy-go-lucky. “I just had an unexpected guest, and he’s teaching me witchcraft.”

“That’s nice,” she sings. Her eyes twinkle, letting the hazel glaze over in the dusty sunlight of the apothecary. “Is ‘teaching’ a new code word these days?”

“What is it today —  _ tease-the-hell-out-of-me _ day?” you groan.

“He’s cute, though. Not around from here, is he?”

Before you can answer —  _ why is she being so inquisitive? _ , Sakusa comes in as your savior for today and drops the bag into Yachi’s hands. “Here.”

He says it in such a blunt manner that it makes you blanch at how uncaring it sounds, devoid of any warmth. Glancing at Yachi, you can see how she evaluates him, trying to figure him out as a person because she’s used to people openly welcoming her. Sakusa makes no notion to be friendly to her, and his mannerisms give you the chills once you notice how he narrows his eyes at her.

In an effort to brush off how hostile he’s acting, you try to cover it up through being amiable. “Thank you for coming here, Yachi, and I hope that you have a nice day!”

“You too!” she says, recovering from being treated like that Sakusa, but you note how she stumbles over the crack near the doorstep as she leaves.

As soon as she leaves, you glare at Sakusa, biting on your lip so hard that you can taste the tang of blood on your tongue. “You didn’t have to be so rude, you know.”

“I’m not going to spend energy on those who don’t deserve it,” he informs you, raising an eyebrow, unbothered by the look on your face. “Why should I? I don’t gain anything from it.”

“What is there to gain from being rude? It’s unnecessary, and you could have more obstacles in your way.”

“This town is hostile to witches and wizards, isn’t it?” he says, finally putting his observations out in the open. “You shouldn’t waste your time on people like this. They’re far too stubborn and unreceptive to our kind.”

You flash him a warning look. “It’s better to heal relations between wizards, witches, and humans, and if we don’t start now, we’ll never go back to where we used to be before — before the war.”

He falls silent, digesting your words quietly.

(After your argument, he leaves you an apology. Or what you think is an apology. When you arrive at your workplace in the apothecary the next morning, he has laid out all your spell books across the table, ready to start teaching you. He even has harvested your herbs from outside.

“You’re very kind,” he tells you, a matter-of-fact tone to his voice, “to those who don’t deserve it. I may not understand why, but for your sake, I’ll try because I’m curious.”

You can’t bring yourself to tell him that you yourself don’t understand why you keep being this kind; why you’ve chosen to help the enemy; why you want peace from all of this; and why you can’t help it. In the end, it doesn’t matter because you know that you’re right to follow the ways of your heritage — to prioritize others’ well-beings over destruction. You just pray and hope that he’ll change in the end, that once he recovers his memories, he’ll understand what you were trying to achieve with him.

The good thing is that once he has gotten over his pride, he apologizes to Yachi, and Yachi is more than delighted. She sends Shimizu Kiyoko over to deliver a wardrobe of clothes for Sakusa —  _ thank goodness because you want him to stop wearing all your clothes _ , and at that moment, you know that the wizard is forced to accept that not everyone is as bad as he makes them out to be.)

. 

.

.

Somehow, over the weeks, you’re able to ease into a pattern with Sakusa and start understanding him as a person. He tends to overclean, preferring to keep everything organized and tidy, very unlike how you do things. You wouldn’t necessarily label him as a germophobe, but you see him more as someone who prefers to have everything under his control, not wanting anything to go astray. The way he observes every single minute detail is astounding. Every time he sees you and your tower of spell books, he sends you a glare, not appreciating the fact that you’re letting this mess grow more and more.

“It’s easy to stay clean,” Sakusa chastises, plucking a book from your growing pile and softly hitting your head with it. “It’s out of laziness that you don’t clean.”

“It’s better to be messy,” you defend yourself. “I’ve been told intelligent people are clean.”

He grabs a spray bottle and sprays some mist into your face, quietly chuckling at how you immediately scrunch up your face and stick out your lip. “I can’t see that.”

You grab another spray bottle (courtesy of him going to the market), spray it directly into his face, and sing under your breath, “Too bad for you.”

You can’t help but laugh at his appalled face, and the two of you end up getting into a spray fight of some sorts. It’s almost childish how easily you’re willing to get into this water fight, but your heart soars because you’re so glad that he can allow yourself to be free with you. 

“I win,” he informs you when he gets the last squirt in. “Cook me udon with some herbs.”

“You just want to eat hot food in the midst of this hot weather,” you say sorely, giving him a look. “Can anyone actually handle that temperature in this heat?”

You grab a piece of ginseng, waving it up in his face. His nose wrinkles at the smell, and suddenly, there’s a brilliant flash of light that forces you away from him. It erupts from his chest, tearing a loud cry of pain from his throat. Sakusa is forced down onto his knees, letting his fingers run through his hair and tighten their grip on his curls to suppress himself from crying out so much. You have no clue what’s going on, and you’re about ready to run away from him — like any other sane person would — until he rasps a curse under his breath, and his fingers clutch your wrist, forcing you to turn to face him. It still carries his warmth, but at the same time, his grip is textured differently, almost gentle now. There’s something in his eyes, a whole other war dancing behind his dark pupils. 

“You remember now, I take it,” you murmur cautiously.

He stands up, backing you against the glass of your apothecary. You feel how your throat tightens up, and you’re very sure that you’re on the verge of screaming from how nervous you are.

“Why did you rescue me?” he asks. “You could have left me to die there, and it would have been a big win for your side.”

“Omi-san —”

“If this is a ploy to lure me onto your side, I will destroy this whole kingdom and tear it down bit by bit,” Sakusa says, his eyes hardened. “Whatever spell you put on me, I will figure out how to break it.”

Now it’s your turn to be confused. “What do you mean? I didn’t put any spell on you.” 

“I hate how much I want to be around you now, and I hate how much I care for you,” he mutters. “I can’t forget these memories with you, and I didn’t mind forgetting my memories of war. Out of everything, strangely enough, I don’t want to forget you the most.”

His words aren’t making any sense, and you’re still pondering on his words as he continues. “You cared for me when I was about to die, and my whole crew abandoned me when I got cursed. I was ready to die because I didn’t want to fight anymore, but you want me to live.”

“You don’t need to fight if you don’t want to,” you tell him.

“Haven’t you heard of me? Sakusa Kiyoomi of the Itachiyama cohort?”

_ Itachiyama, _ you repeat to yourself, and it clicks now that you have another name. Of course, you’re caught up on the latest news, aware of what’s going on in 

“You’re the commander of the whole entire military from the other side, and you recently died, according to the newspapers,” you recall.

“It was you who reminded me that there are other things besides war,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. You’re half-expecting him to push you away and call you foolish for being so easy to fall to his whims, but instead, you can feel how earnest he’s being. “I want to stop fighting meaningless battles for others because no one remembers why we’re fighting anymore. Thank you for reminding me of that.”

At his words, your lips turn up as you realize the success of your goal, but you realize his admission.

“You like me, Omi-san?”

“Omi-kun,” he corrects, dipping his head closer to yours.

You taste the mint on his lips first, and his lips are so very soft and velvety, melding to yours. At this very moment, it’s only you and him. All your conflicts melt away — the war, the segregation between ordinary humans, witches, and wizards. You feel your affection for him grow in this little bubble of happiness. 

In every kiss from him, you can feel him murmur  _ thank you _ under his breath, just a slight vibration of his lips against yours.  _ Thank you so much for changing my life and giving me direction. _

In every kiss from you, you hope that he can feel how you say  _ thank you _ back to him, your heart blossoming into a garden.  _ Thank you so much for changing my life and adding so many flowers to my little garden. _

.

.

.

“You sure want to do this?” you ask, letting a smirk line your lips. “Hacking the local radios is illegal, especially by wizardry.”

“You’re the one who also knocked out all the soldiers with sleeping drugs,” he counters as he readies the radio.

“Fair point,” you laugh, pecking his cheek.

“Focus,” he cautions as he turns the knobs very carefully, “we’re going to make this right and stop the war.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

**Author's Note:**

> HI HIIII ty for making it to the end <33 i hope you enjoyed this au as much as i enjoyed writing it! if you want to talk to me, i'm always active on tumblr @ @dimplesum! i take a little longer to respond to comments on ao3, but they're always appreciated, so thank you for your time!


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